Even a Caged Bird Sings
by Ash Gray Kitsune
Summary: For three hours of his life, Clint Barton was a hero... And then he disappeared. Natasha thinks he's on a mission, The Avengers aren't too concerned about him, and Phil Coulson? Well, he keeps hearing a familiar voice singing old songs in the crowds of New York...
1. Chapter 1

"I've been a wild rover for many a year, and I spent all my money on whiskey and beer..." Phil's head snapped up as that familiar song percolated through the crowds around him, nearly making him splash hot coffee down the front of his shirt and over his sling. And that would have just pissed him and medical off again, so he hastily rescued his coffee and glanced around, gray-green eyes scanning the crowds as he tried to home in on that voice. But no one person stood out to him, and so Coulson turned back, rubbing a hand over his face.

_Damn. _

* * *

"Tony..."

"Not now, Steve, I'm busy with this...thing..."

"Tony, we need to talk."

"C'mon, Cap, just five minutes, that's all I'm asking- HEY!" Steve pulled the torch away and sighed as Tony glared up at him.

"You know, _some_ of us do have work to do for a multimillion dollar company, and Pepper told me she'd yank my coffee again if I didn't get this shit done today." Steve just matched his glare and sat down next to him, face unusually serious.

"Fury's lying to us." He replied calmly, and Tony rolled his eyes, shoving his welding goggles up to quirk an eyebrow at the super soldier.

"Yeah, what's new about that? Fury lies like Dummy makes shakes; all the fuckin' time." Steve's lips twitched at that, and he covered his mouth with one hand.

"Tony..."

"It's true, and you damn well know it. So spill; other than Fury lying, what's got your plaid in a knot?" The captain rolled his eyes and held up his tablet, much abused as it was by various accidental falls from his coffee table. Across the display, Hawkeye's image and various data brightened his section of the workshop, and Tony squinted a little, reading. "Agent Barton, age thirty-seven, primary weapons are the StarkTech compact bow and modified .243 Winchester bolt action scout rifle...currently on special mission status...Y-yeah, we knew that, Steve. What's the matter?"

"It's been almost seven months since Loki's defeat. And we saw him _once_ after that battle. After that...he and Natasha left and he hasn't been seen since."

"He's on a deep cover mission, then. Not surprising. Natasha said he was looking forward to getting back to work." Steve looked a little pained at that, and Tony heaved a sigh. "Look, Rogers...Barton's not a normal kind of guy; he's a spy and an assassin, and he's powerful, but...he's a lone wolf. Natasha and Coulson were his partners, not us...and let's be honest here. The guy had his brain fucked over by Thor's little brother, and that would screw with anyone. Small wonder he just wants a taste of normalcy. And if deep cover is what he needs...who are we to tell him no? Let him do his job, the only way he knows how, and let's just...be here when he comes back." Tony had to smile as Steve grumbled again, and he clapped a greasy hand on the other man's shoulder, ignoring the wince at black streaking his beloved blue plaid.

"Still...I don't like this."

"You'd be an idiot if you did. Now, go make sure Coulson isn't pining or anything; God knows he's oblivious when he's thinking about Barton." Steve rolled his eyes this time and stood up, wiping off his shirt as best he could.

"So are you when you're engineering. Fine, I'll keep him company...come join us at some point tonight?" Tony shrugged, and Steve just smiled, heading back up to the common room and on the search for their elusive handler. But Phil wasn't in the library, or the kitchen, or his favorite part of the den...finally, Steve caved. "Jarvis, where's Agent Coulson?"

"Agent Phil Coulson has left the premises, Captain Rogers." Steve's brow furrowed, and he pulled up the agenda plan he'd laid out months before, and sure enough, Phil was out of the Tower, running paperwork for SHIELD and a few other agencies.

"Well, I guess I'll leave him alone, then. Hey, Jarvis?"

"Yes, Captain?"

"Tell Tony I'm making coffee." There was the faintest of chuckles.

"I shall inform sir immediately."

* * *

The walk to the CIA's New York offices wasn't too long, and with his sling finally off, Coulson figured a walk downtown wouldn't be too strenuous. And he was right; it was comfortably warm, the breeze was gentle, and he felt better than he had in a long time. Even though he felt like he was missing his right arm without Barton at his back. _Damn, I've got it bad. C'mon, Phil; he'll be back in a few more months...maybe..._Fury, at his best, lied like a snake, and Phil wasn't really believing the whole 'Barton's deep cover' schitck. Natasha was, for some odd reason, but Phil? Ever since last week, when he'd heard those familiar strains of 'Wild Rover', he'd been encountering that voice in a crowd, singing the likes of the Stones, Springsteen, and Steely Dan...and more and more, Phil was convinced that his agent wasn't on some mission in Venezuela or somewhere; he was right here, in New York.

"Break a heart, break a heart of stone..." He stopped dead, eyes wide, as that soulful croon washed over him, and the name slipped out before he had a chance to censor himself. It couldn't be...

"Clint!"

* * *

Natasha looked over the tops of her sunglasses, eyes narrowed. She'd seen Coulson on her morning run to get coffee, and watching him just...stop like that was unnerving enough...until she heard the name from his lips. _Clint? But Clint's..._ "Open it up, but don't you leave it alone..." She gasped and glanced around, eyes lighting on a homeless man in rags, sitting on the bench just behind her handler...dark eyes locked on his navy suit. She ghosted around the perimeter and came up to the bench, clapping her hand on his shoulder.

"What the hell are you doing here, Barton?" She purred dangerously, tightening the grip.

"Barton? Who th' hell's Barton?" The man who turned to look up at her, wincing, was easily in his fifties, more heavily bearded than Clint could ever get, and infinitely filthier. She released hm and backed away, apologizing quietly as she slipped back into the crowds. But that, that was his voice...no one else had quite the same tenor, and definitely no one used it to sing Alice Cooper ballads like he did. But she couldn't find him, couldn't pinpoint anything...and that raised a level of fear in her that she hadn't felt since she'd defected. _Clint...where are you?_

* * *

"He's eluding capture, Director." Hill's voice was tired, brittle on the edges, and Fury acknowledged it with a calm glance, the slightest of nods for her to continue. "We have been seeking all leads but he's just a ghost right now..."

"The only person to match him is Agent Romanov, and with her unbalanced, he can do whatever he damn well pleases. Alright. Stark's suspicious, so feed him the line about Columbia, and get Rogers onto something that'll distract him."

"And Agent Coulson?" Fury leaned forward at that, lone dark eye watching her.

"We keep him so damned busy that the mockingbird outside never has a chance to sing."


	2. Chapter 2

"Agent Barton." He turned, haggard, at the sound of Assistant Director Hill's voice, a faint smile that he could no longer feel touching his lips. "You're requested in the Director's office." He nodded once, and turned back to stare blankly down the hallway as he walked. There were no agents to avoid; most, if not all of them, actively ignored his presence, and those who did not, found ways to make themselves scarce. So, the main hall was silent, with only his own footsteps to keep him company. Clint had grown used to this in the last few days, and if he were honest with himself, and them, even...he'd have been the first to agree. He was a monster, a puppet whose strings might not have been cut...and no one was willing to risk a chance. Not on him...especially not him.

For those precious three hours, though, just one week past...he hadn't been either of those things. His head came up a little, and a tiny spark lit his blue eyes, dark as they still were.

He, Clinton Francis Barton, had been a hero.

* * *

"...So, you see, Agent Barton, we're putting you on burn notice as of this moment. The Secretary of Defense wants your head on his platter, and if we're being honest, the welfare of the agency is far more important than that of a broken asset." Hill's voice was dry and calm; a sure sign she was still pissed at him for the potshots under the facility in New Mexico, and Clint kept himself from fidgeting by sheer force of will. _Ah, fuck...fuckity fuck..._ She droned on for a good thirty more minutes, explaining in lovely detail his new tenure at Fort Leavenworth, maximum security, the works...when the Director leaned forward, and Clint felt a chill roll up his spine.

"Agent Barton." Clint gulped, and met that lone brown eye.

"Director. Sir." Fury watched him for a long, long moment, and dipped his head, a sign of respect that Clint was almost afraid to see.

"...I will be honest with you. I didn't want to see it end this way."

"...I didn't either, sir." He whispered, head falling a little now to hang heavy. No, he expected to die in the field, or of some wound, or...well...something. That would be his retirement, his farewell to the agency that had saved his life...and his heart. But his heart had been shattered by Loki, and his life...well...his life wasn't worth much without Phil Coulson in it.

"...You've got an hour before they take you into custody, Agent. I suggest you spend it wisely; please, do not attempt to escape. We've sealed off the vents, and blocked all escape routes." Clint only nodded, a handful of times, and slowly stood, body swaying a little with the slowly growing shock. He turned back for a moment, eyes shadowed.

"Will...will you tell...?"

"Agent Romanov will be notified and warned of any attempt to contact you." Hill's voice cut through his stammering, and he swallowed nervously, the seams of his mask gaping a little more as he met Fury's eye. The older man nodded, once.

"I will tell her. And assure her that in spite of what has happened, we shall fight to free you." And for the first time in his life, Clint Barton watched the man before him lie through his teeth, blatantly not caring one way or another that he believed it or not. He would never be free...chances were, he wouldn't live to see his fortieth birthday. And that light inside him, buried deep by the grief and the guilt, flared up for a moment.

Fuck that shit.

* * *

Really, Fury should have been smarter than to give him an hour's lead time. Clint eased through the underbelly of the building, dressed only in a simple, nondescript set of camo that he'd kept from his army days and one of Phil's old tee shirts. He'd left everything behind; his bow, his phone, anything that might have a tracker, relying on the small pistol he always kept as a back up and clothes that might have been a little too loose, but were comfortable and _his._ He shimmied into the rear service hallway that ran underneath the range and frowned a little, tugging at his shirt. When he'd worn it last, it'd been almost too tight..._Goddamn Loki. I dropped, what, thirty pounds? And I'm still fucking tired from running around for a motherfucking week non-stop. Asshole._ He didn't think about the man who'd grumbled at him for stealing it, didn't think about long nights on ops where all they had was an earpiece and imaginations...didn't think about the rare day off that they'd both spend in bed, getting up only to order Chinese and shower.

God, he missed Phil. _Coulson, you idiot...you perfect, wonderful, jackass of a man. Only you'd take on Loki by yourself..._He sighed and jogged down the dank halls, eyes focusing easily in the darkness. The passage would lead down and down again, and if he was right, he'd be able to escape through the water mains and out into the city proper; say what you will about SHIELD's competence, but even spies needed fresh water, and there weren't many private water sources available in New York these days. So, he made his quiet way down to the main lines, ever mindful of the alarms that might sound if anyone noticed he was gone. But his internal clock said he had fifteen minutes left, and he had a suspicion of who'd be coming for him...

And General Ross was always late.

* * *

"...and charges of terrorism, I think that would look absolutely appropriate, given his past actions, don't you think, Nick?" Fury's lips thinned, and he took a few steps ahead, one nerve twitching in his jaw.

"His past actions were cleared, due to his service." General Thaddeus Ross scoffed and set to work opening the door to Barton

"Perhaps, but not anymore. Barton! On your feet, you lousy excuse for an...Fury. Where is he." Nick rolled his eyes, and pushed the door open all the way, glancing inside.

"He's right...here. BARTON!"

* * *

Clint slid through the bars and hit water, gasping a little at the coldness. _Fuck, it's cold...alright, Barton, let's get moving._ He started to swim, long, broad strokes, taking shallow breaths as he went. For once, he was thankful for Natasha's brutal lessons in swimming. In Russia. In the winter. With that under his belt, this was a cakewalk; at least here, he could take breaks, and did so, propping himself up on a bit of exposed concrete to rest while the chilly waters went past. Natasha...He grinned, just a hair. Fury'd probably 'send him on a mission' for this, just to give the agency time to keep her off the scent of his escape. Of course, he could just go...to...the Tower...

"Ah, fuck." No, no, if he did that, he'd be opening the door to incarceration...and he'd drag the other Avengers into it. No...no, this was all on him. He would have to find a way to avoid the agency, and keep a low profile...He sighed, running a hand through his hair, a little grateful that the water still dripping from him hid the hotter blaze of tears. _So, homeless again it is. Great. Back where I started out all those years ago...and I can't even shoot my bow for a little cash. I'll make something work...somehow. Somehow..._


End file.
